Алистер Маклин - Caravan to Vaccares

The leading, vehicle in the convoy, the yellow breakdown truck that had been pressed into the service of hauling Czerda’s caravan, was the only one that was completely dust-free. Czerda himself was driving, with Searl and El Brocador seated beside him. Czerda was looking at El Brocador with an expression on his face that came as close to admiration as his presently rather battered features were capable of expressing.

He said: ‘By heavens, El Brocador, I’d rather have you by my side than a dozen incompetent unfrocked priests.’

‘I am not a man of action,’ Searl protested. ‘I never have claimed to be.’

‘You’re supposed to have brains,’ Czerda said contemptuously. ‘What happened to them?’

‘We mustn’t be too hard on Searl,’ El Brocador said soothingly. ‘We all know he’s under great pressure, he’s not, as he says, a man of action and he doesn’t know Arles. I was born there, it is the back of my hand to me. I know every shop in Arles that sells gypsy costumes, fiesta costumes and gardien clothes. There are not so many as you might think. The men I picked to help me were all natives too. But I was the lucky one. First time, first shop – just the kind of shop Bowman would choose, a seedy old draper’s in a sidestreet.’

‘I hope, El Brocador, that you didn’t have to use too much – ah – persuasion?’ Czerda was almost arch about it and it didn’t become him at all.

‘If you mean violence, no. Those aren’t my methods, you know that, and besides I’m far too well known in Arles to try anything of the sort. Anyway, I didn’t have to, nobody would have to. I know Madame Bouvier, everyone knows her, she’d throw her own mother in the Rhône for ten francs. I gave her fifty.’ El Brocador grinned. ‘She couldn’t tell me enough fast enough.’

‘A blue and white polka-dotted shirt, white sombrero and black embroidered waistcoat.’ Czerda smiled in anticipation. ‘It’ll be easier than identifying a circus clown at a funeral.’

‘True, true. But first we must catch our hare.’

‘He’ll be there,’ Czerda said confidently. He jerked a thumb in the direction of the following caravans. ‘As long as they are here, he’ll be here. We all know that by this time. You just worry about your part, El Brocador.’

‘No worry there.’ El Brocador’s confidence matched Czerda’s own. ‘Everyone knows what mad Englishmen are like. Just another crazy idiot who tried to show off before the crowd. And dozens of witnesses will have seen him tear free from us in spite of all we could do to stop him.’

‘The bull will have specially sharpened horns? As we arranged?’

‘I have seen to it myself.’ El Brocador glanced at his watch. ‘Can we not make better time? You know I have an appointment in twenty minutes.’

‘Never fear,’ Czerda said. ‘We shall be in Mas de Lavignolle in ten minutes.’

At a discreet distance behind the settling dust the lime-green Rolls swept along in its customary majestic silence. The cabriolet hood was down, with Le Grand Duc sitting regally under the shade of a parasol which Lila held over him.

‘You slept well?’ she asked solicitously.

‘Sleep? I never sleep in the afternoons. I merely had my eyes closed. I have many things, far too many things, on my mind and I think better that way.’

‘Ah! I didn’t understand.’ The first quality one required in dealing with Le Grand Duc, she had learned, was diplomacy. She changed the subject rapidly. ‘Why are we following so few caravans when we’ve left so many behind in Arles?’

‘I told you, those are the ones I am interested in.’

‘But why–’

‘Hungarian and Rumanian gypsies are my special field.’ There was a finality about the way he spoke that effectively sealed off that particular line of discussion.

‘And Cecile. I’m worried about–’

‘Your friend Miss Dubois has already left and unless I am much mistaken–’ his tone left no room to doubt the impiety of any such thought – ‘she is also on this road and considerably ahead of us. She was, I must concede,’ he added reflectively, ‘attired in a very fetching Arlésienne fiesta dress.’

‘A gypsy dress, Charles.’

‘Arlésienne fiesta,’ Le Grand Duc said firmly. ‘I miss very little, my dear. Gypsy costume when you saw her, perhaps. But Arlésienne when she left.’

‘But why should she–’

‘How should I know?’

‘You saw her go?’

‘No.’

‘Then how–’

‘Our Carita here also misses very little. She left with, it seems, a shady-looking individual in gardien clothes. One wonders what happened to that other ruffian – Bowman, wasn’t it? Your friend appears to possess a unique talent for picking up undesirables.’

‘And me?’ Lila was suddenly tight-lipped.

‘Touché! I deserved that. Sorry, I did not intend to slight your friend.’ He gestured with a hand ahead and to the left where a long narrow line of water gleamed like burnished steel under the early afternoon sun. ‘And what is that, my dear?’

Lila glanced at it briefly. ‘I don’t know,’ she said huffily.

‘Le Grand Duc never apologizes twice.’

‘The sea?’

‘Journey’s end, my dear. Journey’s end for all the gypsies who have come hundreds, even thousands of miles from all over Europe. The Étang de Vaccarès.’

‘Étang?’

‘Lake. Lake Vaccarès. The most famous wildlife sanctuary in Western Europe.’

‘You do know a lot, Charles.’

‘Yes, I do,’ Le Grand Duc conceded.

Bowman packed up the remains of lunch in a wicker basket, disposed of what was left of a bottle of champagne and closed the boot of the car.

‘That was delightful,’ Cecile said. ‘And how very thoughtful of you.’

‘Don’t thank me, thank Czerda. He paid for it.’ Bowman looked north along the two-mile stretch of road. It was quite empty of traffic. ‘Well, back to Mas de Lavignolle. The caravans must have stopped at the fair. Heigh-Ho for the bullfight.’

‘But I hate bullfights.’

‘You won’t hate this one.’

He reversed the Citroën and drove back to Mas de Lavignolle. There seemed to be many fewer people there than there had been when they had passed through even although the number of cars and caravans had almost doubled, a discrepancy easily and immediately accounted for as soon as the Citroën had stopped by the sound of laughter and shouting and cheering coming from the nearby bullring. For the moment Bowman ignored the bullring: remaining seated in the car, he looked carefully around him. He did not have to look for long.

‘To nobody’s surprise,’ he announced, ‘Czerda and his missionary pals have turned up in force. At least, their caravans have, so one assumes that Czerda and company have also.’ He drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the steering wheel. ‘To nobody’s surprise, that is, except mine. Curious, curious. One wonders why?’

‘Why what?’ Cecile asked.

‘Why they’re here.’

‘What do you mean? You expected to find them here. That’s why you turned back, wasn’t it?’

‘I turned back because the time-factor, their delay in overtaking us, convinced me that they must have stopped somewhere and this seemed as likely a place as any. The point is that I would not have expected them to stop at all until they reached some of the lonely encampments on one of the étangs to the south where they could have the whole wide Camargue all to themselves. But instead they choose to stop here.’

He sat in silence and she said: ‘So?’

‘Remember I explained in some detail back in Arles just why I thought the gypsies were pulling out so quickly?’

‘I remember some of it. It was a bit confusing.’